I believe. Just, it was a little too late, wasn’t it? And his belief didn’t solve the main problem: Tierney was emotionally fragile right now, and a relationship could fuck up his recovery.
What am I going to do?
That last question was what finally dragged him out of bed. Because he was an adult, and adults got up in the morning and fed their cat. Especially when said cat had been yowling for a while.
“For the record, 11:45 is totally still morning,” he said to Blue when he walked into the kitchen.
Blue meowed grumpily, then jumped up on the counter and sat on his haunches right over the drawer where the can opener lived. Dalton didn’t care enough to put him back on the floor; he just opened the wet food while Blue watched, then mashed it into the dry and set it in front of him. The gulping and purring began immediately, and Dalton stood next to him, petting his fur, letting it soothe his hurt. Blue didn’t really care about his feelings, or comforting him, but Dalton could pretend.
Tea sounded comforting, also. He could make himself a cup. If he had any around. Normally he drank coffee, but coffee was for days when he wasn’t nursing a broken heart. Unfortunately, after ransacking all his cupboards, he confirmed his suspicion—he didn’t have any tea.
“Should I go buy some?”
Blue ignored him and continued to lick one of his back legs, stretching it high into the air in front of him and running his tongue along the whole length.
Sigh. Getting dressed and going to the store was so much effort. He wandered into the living room and flopped into his chair, butt landing on something hard and about the size of a cell phone. He wasn’t surprised to discover after he fished it out that’s what it was. Waking it up, the first thing he saw was the little red circle above his message icon indicating he had a voice mail.
Tierney. He should’ve brought the phone to bed with him, then he wouldn’t have missed the call.
Except it was only Andrea. Worse, it was Andy telling him that, after watching him and Tierney in the club on Thanksgiving, she could accept their relationship. “I still don’t like him, but seeing how he looks at you and how he treats you . . .” She sighed before spitting out, “I guess it’s possible he’s changed.” He cut it off and threw the phone onto the couch without listening to the rest. Once he told her what happened—and he’d have to tell her—his sister would probably hate Tierney again, regardless of why they’d ended things.
Whatever. Well, since he hadn’t plugged his phone in last night, he probably should now. The battery didn’t last that long anymore, and having a task would help him not dwell.
Standing, he picked it up, and as he turned, something on the floor in his entryway caught his eye. He had to get closer before he could figure out what it was.
A piece of paper. Folded in half, with his name written on it, lying a few inches in front of the door, as if someone had slipped it underneath.
He immediately thought of Tierney again—of course—and his heart did a somersault in spite of his reminder to it that he’d thought Andy’s phone message might be from Tierney. Besides, would Tierney contact him this way?
Maybe . . .?
He stood staring at it a moment. Something about the handwriting was familiar. He couldn’t recall having seen Tierney’s, but, while this neatish, blocky penmanship didn’t seem in keeping with Tierney’s character, it did look familiar. Had he subconsciously noted Tierney’s style? Was there some kind of omen in it being totally different than what Dalton expected? A sign he’d been looking at the whole person wrong? Thinking they could make things fit, when in reality Tierney’s style was incompatible with his. Look at his furniture.
Except Tierney hadn’t picked most of it out, and he’d told Dalton he thought it was ugly.
And Dalton had already decided to believe.
Squatting, he finally picked up the paper and unfolded it.
More of those blocky letters were inside.
We need to talk. I know I was in the wrong, and I want to make it up to you. Please meet me at Murray’s, where you and your friend go, at 1 p.m. today.
—T
That was . . . weird. It didn’t sound like Tierney, but he’d signed it. Sort of. It didn’t matter, though; Dalton’s hopes had already taken flight. He tried to tamp them down—being in the wrong didn’t necessarily equate to them getting back together—but in the fifteen minutes he took to have a quick shower and get dressed, he grew progressively more excited. Maybe things really could work out. Maybe Tierney had figured out a way, or his therapist had offered another opinion.
Maybe Tierney didn’t care, because he wanted to be with Dalton so much.
Maybe he’d realized that breaking it off was just wrong.
In the end, Dalton’s hopes were so much stronger than his fears that he grabbed his backpack on the way out the door, just in case.
Tierney wasn’t there yet when Dalton arrived at Murray’s, so he got them a table and waited. It was in a different section than where he and Sam sat. Their typical spot was in the middle of the room screened by potted plants, while today he’d been shown to one against the mirror-paneled wall farthest from the entrance.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the waiter said from his left side, startling him. “Will someone be joining you, or are you ready to order?” He glanced at the second menu the host had placed across from Dalton.
“I’m waiting for someone,” he confirmed, then leaned forward to see the restaurant clock after the waiter nodded and turned away.
Was it a good sign or a bad sign that Tierney was late? Ten minutes wasn’t that much, was it? Or could he have been seated already and Dalton missed him? It wasn’t a huge restaurant, but there were so many potted plants and bamboo screen things that maybe there were dining areas he didn’t even know to search? Trying not to be too obvious, Dalton craned his head and leaned various directions, searching. But nothing. He’d seen it all. Nothing by the side door, or the seating against the parti-wall next to the host’s station, or the middle section where he and Sam usually sat. Although there was someone at their usual table now. Just one guy, who also seemed to be waiting. He had his elbows on the table and his mouth propped against his clasped hands, eyes darting around over the top of them, like he was inspecting the room and patrons, too.
Then he turned slightly, just enough to put his face in profile, and Dalton’s heart palpitated. He knew that profile—he’d seen it the night of the bashing.